Rosalund's Raiders

By Allan Ede

Wesley Hanson, an uninspired senior at Renton High School in Riverview, is attacked and badly beaten by a boy named B.J. and his Manglers, a notorious gang from the city's Southside. A friend of Wesley's tells him about Arthur Rosalund, an extremely rich man, who dreams of using his money and power to rid the world of gang violence. His gang, Rosalund's Raiders, will infiltrate other gangs and convince them that teaming up with his Raiders will assure them of a worthwhile future, filled with benefits, such as money, scholarships, and security.

Wesley overcomes his fear of failing, and, after training vigorously in the martial arts, becomes a full-fledged Raider. His first mission is to contact Rufus Brown, the powerful head of the Rounders, and to convince him to bring fifty other gang leaders to Rosalund.

While mixing with the Rounders, Wesley falls in love with Lisa, one of their members. She accompanies Wesley to a meeting of the warlords at Eagle Point Park. The gathering is interrupted by B.J. and his Manglers who are heavily armed and spoiling for blood. The police invade and, after a brutal confrontation, haul most of the gang members, including Wesley, to jail.

Will Rosalund's dreams be thwarted? Will Wesley's love for Lisa jeopardize his commitment to Rosalund as one of his Raiders?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 24, 2002
• ISBN: 9780595726783

Allan Ede

Allan Ede (rhymes with weed) was born in 1939 in Dubuque, Iowa. He attended St. Raphael’s Grade School and Loras Academy High School (R.O.T.C.). He received a B.A. and an M.A. in English from Loras College. He taught high school English, including creative writing (3 years at Don Bosco in Gilbertville, Iowa, and 33 years at Western Dubuque in Epworth, Iowa, and composition and literature 4 years at Northeastern Iowa Community College). He coached basketball for 6 years on a freshman-sophomore level. He is the father of five daughters and one son. His wife, Mary Jo, is the mother of one son and three daughters. Ede has had a variety of work experiences besides teaching, including jobs in factories, construction, railroad, landscaping, painting, and selling Fuller Brush products from door to door in California. His hobbies include reading, writing, dancing, camping, and playing and watching most sports. Ede has attended many writing conferences and workshops throughout the Midwest. He participated in a Novel Writing class, taught by a published author, John Tigges, for ten years. Ede’s credits include poems, articles, novels, and short stories. “Fireflies” won 1st place in the Sinipee Writers’ Short Story Contest (1993) and “Teach Them Yourself” won 1st place (2007). He has also co-authored The History of Epworth, Iowa. He has published Rosalund’s Raiders—a Young Adult novel about teen-age gangs, Blood Island an Adult Action/Adventure novel involving mayhem, murder, and vengeance in the Boundary Waters between the U.S. and Canada, and Fireflies: A Collection of Short Stories, Poems, and Essays. He is currently at work on his fifth book.

Book preview

Rosalund’s Raiders

All Rights Reserved © 2002 by Allan F. Ede

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

Writers Club Press

an imprint of iUniverse, Inc.

For information address:

iUniverse, Inc.

2021 Pine Lake Road, Suite 100

Lincoln, NE 68512

www.iuniverse.com

ISBN: 0-595-21749-4

ISBN: 978-0-5957-2678-3 (eBook)

Contents

2232.png

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

About The Author

I would like to dedicate this book to my lovely children (Beth, Angie, Becky, Chris, Katie and Sarah) who have encouraged me to write and to follow my dreams.

CHAPTER 1

2232.png

Dim streetlights, swaying in the autumn breeze, cast eerie shadows along the sidewalk as Wesley Hanson hurried down Bluff Street. He had stayed too late at Red Reichner’s house watching Above the Law, a movie they had rented from Video Shack. He had told his mom that he’d be home by midnight, but he and Red got talking about what they planned to do after graduation from Renton High School. He envied his friend in that Red seemed to know exactly what he wanted to do with his future. He had been accepted at the Air Force Academy. It was no wonder that Red had seen Top Gun four times. Flying was in his blood. He had already flown fifty hours solo at Riv-erview airport. At times Wesley wasn’t even sure he wanted to go to college. What for? He could find a job and start saving for a Camaro. He wouldn’t be getting any scholarship money, and his parents had already informed him that he’d have to pay his own way. If he did go, what would he study? He hadn’t the slightest idea. Red had known since seventh grade that he wanted to be Top Gun someday.

Remembering that it was after 1:00, Wesley quickened his pace, turning at the walkway between St. Raphael’s Cathedral and the Physical Fitness Center that had once been the grade school. It was a short cut to his house, but sometimes he didn’t take it because it was not well lighted, and, besides he had to pass by a Mortuary Chapel where several priests had been buried years ago. All kinds of stories were told about people seeing those dead priests walking around in their black cassocks reading their prayers. But Wesley was in a hurry, and the brutal actions of Steven Seagal playing Nico Toscani, the hero in the movie he had just watched, pumped up his adrenaline. He felt braver than usual. When he heard a noise halfway through the dark passageway, he stopped. Looking ahead, he could see someone lurking in the doorway of the Mortuary Chapel. He didn’t feel so brave anymore. His courageous thoughts brought on by the movie were dissipating rapidly. He turned to run back the way he had come.

Hey, kid, hold up a minute, someone shouted.Wesley still considered running, but he heard footsteps ahead of him. He was cut off. He knew these guys weren’t ghosts, but they couldn’t be up to any good hiding in the dark at this late hour.

Whatdya want? Wesley said, his voice quivering.

We’ll tell ya what we want in due time, a third person said.

One of them grabbed Wesley and shoved him roughly up against the chapel wall. His head and shoulder blades thudded on the bricks, sending sharp pains through his entire body.

What are your colors? the boy growled.

Wesley panicked. He didn’t have any colors. Oh, he and his friends called themselves the Fourth Street Bullets because it sounded tough, but their gang was more of a joke than any thing else. What could he tell them? He had to say something.

I’m a Bullet, Wesley blurted.

What’s a Bullet? The guy tightened his grip on Wesley’s leather jacket. Hey, I’m asking you again. Give me your colors.

Gagging at the smell of his assailant’s foul breath, Wesley said, Black.

Black, huh? the guy punched him in the mouth. Wesley’s lip split open, and he could taste blood oozing from the wound. His head, banged on the wall as a result of the blow, ached. He stiffened, expecting more blows. He tried to break from the guy’s grip, but he couldn’t. The guy was too strong, and now five hulks surrounded him.

You’re a smart ass, aren’t ya? One of the others said.

Wesley wanted to scream. Maybe someone would hear his cries for help. His throat tightened. He swallowed, choking on his own blood.

Look, punk! the tallest of the bunch held a flashlight to his own face. This is black. We’re the Manglers, and black is our color—all the way—and don’t you forget it.

Wesley cringed at the sight of the black skinned face before him. He had heard horror stories about this ruthless black gang. Their reputation for violence had caused concern all over Riverview. After beating up their victims, they allegedly mangled an arm or a leg leaving their mark on them permanently. Their female affiliates, called the Manglettes, scarred their prey for life. Several white girls had been slashed with knives last month while riding a bus home from a football game.

Their main turf was on the southside of Riverview—miles away. What were they doing in this neighborhood?

As if he were reading his thoughts, the big guy said, We’re expanding our territory. Spread the word. Bit by bit, we’re gonna rule this whole rotten city. And there’s nothing nobody can do about it. You got that, man? He slammed Wesley against the wall once again for emphasis.

Yeah, Wesley murmured, blood drooling out of the corner of his mouth.

What’s that? What did ya say? He slapped Wesley twice in the face.

Yes! Wesley said.

"That’s better, white boy. We’ll let you off easy for now. Maybe next time you won’t be so lucky. He punched Wesley in the gut, knocking him to the ground. He lay there breathless, fighting the urge to puke. One of his attackers kicked him in the ribs. Vomit exploded out of his mouth. They dragged him to his feet and shoved him headlong into the darkness toward the church parking lot. Wesley stumbled onward. Tears welled in his eyes, as pain engulfed his entire body. Were they through with him or were they still following him, waiting eagerly to inflict more pain? He didn’t dare look back. Holding his side, he staggered across the empty parking lot toward Emmett Street. He glanced up the hill. His house—home-base—loomed at the top. If he could just reach it, he would be safe. He sprawled across the hood of a car, trying to catch his breath. He had been beaten up by playground bullies, having a little fun at his expense, but he had never experienced pain like he was feeling now. He forced himself to trudge up the street. Were they still following him? Probably, but he kept going. Reaching his front porch without further confrontation, he grabbed the railing and dragged himself up the stairs. He tripped on the top step and fell on his face to the porch floor. He writhed in agony, expecting his assailants to pounce on him. His cheek rested on the cold floor. His lips still bled, and he could taste the bile from his vomit. The porch light flicked on. He heard the front door open. His father ran to him.

Wesley! What’s wrong? He bent down and helped him to his feet.

Just get me inside, Wesley gasped. Leaning on his father’s shoulder, he limped along the porch to the door.

Once inside, after the door slammed shut, Wesley gestured halfheartedly with his forefinger toward the door. His father locked it and jammed the deadbolt in place.

Wesley! What happened to you? His father half dragged, half carried him to the living room couch.

His mother appeared in the kitchen doorway. My god, Wesley, You’re all blood. How did—she stopped. Shoving a pillow under his head, she screamed, Matt, call an ambulance. His father started toward the kitchen phone.

No! No! Wesley gasped. I’m all right. Just give me a few minutes. He grimaced as his mother unzipped his jacket. She gagged at the smell of vomit and blood caked on his coat.

Wesley! Wesley! Tears streamed down